


Spoils Of War

by Melochromatic



Category: Berserk (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Frottage, Internal Conflict, Jealousy, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Rough Sex, golden age arc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:01:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23122183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melochromatic/pseuds/Melochromatic
Summary: Griffith doesn't exactly know what Guts is to him.
Relationships: Griffith/Guts (Berserk)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 140





	Spoils Of War

Every scar was location. An acre of land taken, conquered, and reaped, beneath his fingertips. 

_It's mine. I own it all. Here, from the scar on his chest that I gave three years ago, to the divots and valleys across the planes of his abdomen. It's the territory I've conquered, the spoils of war and a well fought battle that I plunder. He is...so good._

Guts’s eyes are lidded, gaze watery and perfectly vulnerable under Griffith’s weight. His parted mouth and suppressed moans are something that Griffith knows belongs to him. He never looks at anyone else this way. No one. 

_Not even…_

Griffith’s heart skips. His thrusts stutter. He's broken out of his own trance, mind both miles away and so painfully present. Guts belongs to him. His evidence is there, sprawled in front of him. His prized warrior and favorite treat. It was perfect, _right?_

“You okay?” Guts questions, repositioning himself so he's sitting up on the back of his elbows. Griffith doesn't look at him. Convincing himself that Guts is property had come easy at first, and harder as the years progressed. Guts is not subordinate to him in the way a soldier is to a leader. What Griffith took, he wished to share with Guts. It was not in or a part of his dream, but the feelings were like being in a dream. 

Griffith’s heart is hammering in his chest. When Guts gives him a soft look, it’s about to burst. 

Sickness, Griffith concludes. The same sickness that fills his body when he resolves to throw himself into harm’s way for Guts’s sake. The feeling of seeing Guts training, when Guts brings his sword above his head and his arms glisten with heat and Griffith assesses his entire body. 

And Casca. 

Casca’s eyes take hold of Griffith’s soldier. She tries to claim him with her gaze, and Guts is bound to be smitten. It’s only natural for him. Men of such weak constitutions. Men who wish not to follow his plan. Men who want to abandon his dream. Men who want to leave him behind. 

But this is Guts. This is not some ordinary subordinate to Griffith. But why has Guts always been so different? 

_Because he’s mine._

And Casca. She knows Guts is going to leave. She can tell when she looks at him that he is going to go after the final battle with the Hawks. Griffith has heard the rumors. Casca informed him when she first caught wind of the notion. She can sniff it out on him, and Griffith has been so caught up in political affairs that she knows Guts more than _he._

Something overtakes Griffith, not the sickening feeling no, but something to quickly douse the feeling. He tests it, grabbing Guts’s shoulder and rolling him over so he’s now laying on his chest, head pressed against the pillow. 

“Hey! Griffith, what the hell are you-” Guts is cut off by a bite on the shoulder, his words coming out in a strangled moan. 

“I, I can’t do this,” Guts manages as Griffith begins to thrust inside him deep, hard. Sharp. 

Griffith imagines it all, the body he claimed laid waste to by the wilderness he wishes to journey in. His greatest conquest leaving, moving forward, and moving on. It stings. Griffith won't allow it, it's not possible. Why would he want to leave? Hadn't he shared his dream with Guts? He doesn’t want to do the rest without him. He couldn't do the rest without him. Because then it wasn't his dream. Somehow, along the way, Guts became entwined with his dream. Sickness. A curse. His mind won’t allow the thought any longer. If he does, he’ll lose sight of what’s important. 

“Say something dammit!” Guts cries out, struggling. He cranes his head around, but Griffith pushes his forearm into the back of his neck, keeping his head planted into the bed. Griffith's breathing is ragged, strangled. 

_You can't turn around. I can't let you see me like this._

Griffith slides in and out of Guts harshly, hips colliding against Guts’s ass as the feeling of external pleasure and submerged pain gathers in his stomach. Welling in his eyes, a tear trails down his face, gathering at his chin and dripping on Guts’s back. 

“Griffith?” 

_When did something that belonged to me stray so far out of reach._

“What's wrong?” 

_And now he's leaving._

“Look at me.” 

_Slipped from my grasp._

Somehow Griffith ended up sitting back against the wall of his chamber with Guts having pulled out from Griffith’s weakened hold and even weaker thrusts. Guts faces him, cradling his face in his hands and looking deeply. Searching.

_Wasn't this scene familiar, only reversed?_

“I apologize, I'm afraid I got lost in the moment,” Griffith began, collecting himself and willing his emotions to be subdued. It is a practiced action he is comfortable with. He bites his tongue in his mouth when he's not talking so he can taste his own blood. 

“Whatever you're thinking now, stop.” Guts demands, pushing Griffith’s hair out of his eyes. They are still achingly hard, pressing against one another as Griffith hums at the contact. 

“You want to talk about it?” Guts asks, slowly rutting against Griffith’s cock and bringing him back to their situation. 

“It's...nothing Guts. I’d prefer not to think about it.” Griffith lets out a shaky breath, allowing the last of his emotions to be quelled. Not overcome, but dismissed. Good enough. 

“I feel as though all this socializing with the nobles has finally become exhausting to me. It’s not something I dislike, since I want to work alongside them. But I feel I have become distant to my men-n.” Griffith bites back a moan as Guts circles a thumb across his achingly sensitive tip. 

It wasn't a total lie. 

“The men missed you.” Guts says, pulling his hands away from Griffith’s face. He breaks eye contact to look at the ground and the candles of the room dance fleetingly across his face. “I was among them.” 

Griffith’s mouth parts just slightly, feeling warmth flood through him again, but he quickly regains composure. 

“Don't worry. We are always thinking of you. It's not the Hawks without you. But when you come back, it's like you never left. You're doing what you need to do to make your dream come true.” 

“When you and Casca returned, I wish I had been there to greet you.” 

Guts let out a small growl. “Stop thinking about it,” Guts said, moving in on Griffith’s collar bone. “Let me make you forget,” Guts says in a hushed voice. And Guts, in this moment, is so good at making him forget. Guts’s tongue traces along Griffith’s neck, pressing strong, weathered hands into his thighs and pulling their bodies flush against each other. 

“Seeing the leader of the Band of the Hawks like this in front of me. It's a sight a man could get drunk off.” 

“Drink up.” Griffith smirks, allowing Guts to roam his hands over his body. It’s too intimate. It’s too much. And yet, in an instant, those hands sweep doubt, depression, and pain away. To the side. Nothing is wrong, with Guts raking his teeth down his neck. They are so close to victory, so close to orgasm. Griffith allows his body to splay out for Guts, and embraces the pummeling friction of Guts’s cock against his own. Fluids mix. Nothing untrustworthy in Guts’s eyes. He is an animal chasing orgasm, and it crashes over both of them in the red-orange glow of candlelight. Body limp, Guts rests his forehead against Griffith’s, their breathing slowly evening out as Griffith cards his fingers through Guts’s hair. Nothing is wrong. 

What would he do without him?


End file.
